February 26, 2007

I saw Berta's Mom last Thursday. I hadn't seen her in eight years. Since Berta's funeral. We were both in the baking aisle at the grocery store, walking towards each other. She didn't recognize me at first. I knew immediately who she was.

As we walked towards each other I could tell there was no familiarity in her eyes for me. I smiled big at her. I kept my ear-to-ear grin plastered on my face until, finally, she saw who I was. She was shocked but I also think she was pleasantly surprised. See, I was her daughter's best friend. We went to high school together, had our first crushes together, our first hickeys together, our showers and our weddings were shared. We had our babies together. We had our marriages together. Our joys, our sorrows. I loved Berta. She loved me. We also had our ups and downs, like all friends do. We pulled through our ups and downs except before she died.

Berta was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the same time my Mother died. I remember Berta coming to my Mom's funeral, her hair hurting because she had just had her first chemo treatment. She lost her hair right after wards. When her hair started coming out in clumps she had her husband shave her head. Her Mom bought her some goofy wigs to wear. We took pictures of the wigs and laughed about their color and texture. She ended up just going bald, wearing hats or scarfs. She was brave.

Berta did all the chemo. She did the stem cell treatments. The treatment worked. She fought hard and went into remission. She started coaching her son's soccer team. She wanted desperately to see him grow up, graduate, fall in love. But the cancer came back. Aggressive treatment was started right away but the standard protocols didn't work. Her brother was a match so she went to Dallas to have a bone marrow transplant.

Berta never came home. The transplant didn't work; she died in Dallas. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to hold her hand and tell her how much she meant to so many people.

While Berta was in remission we let some stupid conversations get between us. I had gone through a divorce and had remarried. Berta was in a marriage that didn't make her happy. We didn't see much of each other and spoke less often than we had in our entire relationship.

Seeing her Mom brought back all of those old feelings of guilt because of the way our relationship ended. I miss her so much. I can still hear her voice on the phone. "Hey there" she would say when I picked up the phone. Her words ring in my head.

Her Mom told me about her son. He was tall and broad. He wants to be a pilot. He has a girlfriend. His father moved him out of town after she died. I didn't get to see him grow up.

After we spoke for a few minutes I could see her eyes tearing up. This conversation was just as painful for her and it was for me. She reminded me of Berta; I reminded her of Berta. Time to go. Gotta clean the house, run some errands, get back home.

I don't know when I will see her again. I don't know if I will ever see her son again. I hope I do.

February 22, 2007

You've come a long way baby! I grew up with this phrase. It was on TV, on ads in the magazines I read and on billboards. Catchy phrase. One that at first blush might make you think of the women's suffrage movement or the campaign for the Equal Rights Amendment. It wasn't that altruistic though. It was from a cigarette ad that was pushing the equal rights movement into the chemical addiction realm. You were really a woman of equality if you smoked freely and independently. But I digress.

I thought of that old phrase today when I read about the incredible equal pay for equal play victory today at Wimbledon. The female tennis stars who play at Wimbledon will now be paid the same as the male stars who play in the annual contest! What a milestone for them to have crossed. From the AP story I read today:

"Venus Williams, three times a Wimbledon singles winner, led the bandwagon of female tennis stars hammering on the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club's door demanding equal pay."

She even offered to play more games just to get the same pay as the male players:

"The 2000, 2001 and 2005 champion had even said she would be prepared to play the best of five sets like the men rather than the best of three if that was what it would take to close the pay gap."*

Yes, we have come a long way baby. Congrats to Venus Williams, and the unknown others, who made this happen. Even though strides are continually made to lessen the distance between female and male wage earners we still have our work cut out for us.

According to the AFL-CIO, women will not catch up to the wages men are paid until the year 2050. From the same CNN article:

"...the average 25-year-old woman who works full-time, year-round until she retires at age 65 (if that's when she's able to retire) will earn $523,000 less than the average working man.."

And we still make less than men for the same types of jobs:

"On average, women make 78 percent of men's wages, according to a 2003 study by the U.S. Department of Labor. This is, however, a marked improvement over 25 years ago -- in 1979, women made 62 percent of what men earned."

We have allegedly earned 16% more in the last 25 years. I guess in 25 more that will put us at about 94% of what men earn.

Yes, we still have our work cut out for us. I am not satisfied with these numbers. Are you?

February 21, 2007

What would it take for you to finally say "I've had enough and can't keep going this direction"? Was it the Sunday blues that put you over the edge? You know, the blues that set in about 5:00 p.m. on a Sunday when you realize the weekend is coming to an end and you have to get up at 6 a.m. on Monday just so that you can head back into the job that no longer thrills you? Or was it when you had to put bandaids on your child's chickenpox so that you could take her to day care and still get into work without penalty?

All of that, and more, happened to me but it was $252.00 that put me over the edge. We all have our breaking points. This was mine.

I was given a promotion into a management position. I was well qualified and knew the job was going to be a good fit for me. I was excited. But then came the raise that came with it. Three percent. Wait a minute. I was assuming more responsibility. I was going to handle some very important accounts as well as manage another person. I was going to have to travel and make presentations to some clients. Three percent? I knew damn well that the guys in the department weren't getting three percent. They were getting raises and bonuses that enabled them to buy brand new SUV's several times a year. The actual dollar amount that ended up being at issue was 252 bucks.

I decided at that time that I would do whatever it took, for as long as I needed to get it done right, and move on. And I did. I became an entrepreneur. That was a little over five years ago. I opened a business and worked fifteen hours a day in two jobs. It was tough. Becoming an entrepreneur may not be viable for everyone; not everyone wants to work for themselves nor does everyone have the resources to do so. But it was what I had to do for me.

My mother died at 56. She died at work. She always wanted to change her profession and do something new but for various reasons could not move in that direction. I will always be haunted by her death and the way she died. That is my motivation for pushing hard to get what I want and to do what I love.

February 11, 2007

The one major illusion of a cubicle is that it affords the occupant privacy. Some of the walls are metal, some walls have a faux burlap wrapping that makes it easier to tack up such personal notions as photos, lists, calendars and whatever else makes the occupant feel at home. But you can still hear the person in the next box. If you are average height, you can see over the walls into the next work space. And, even though the cubicles have a semi-door entry way, nothing closes or moves to afford any sense of being in your own office. There is no such thing as privacy in a cubicle.

But they want you to think there is. Most companies will orchestrate some type of white noise in the office to drown out the voices next door. Some managers will stand outside of a cubicle listening to their employees conversations. But we know better.

The last cubicle farm I worked in was predominantly filled with females. As all good cubicle farms are, this one was centered in the office. Offices that had windows, walls and doors surrounded the cubicles and were all occupied by men. Not one woman sat in an office. These coveted offices were reserved for the guys who sold the most. Even though some of them spent their days golfing with clients or watching the stock market on their PC's, the offices were reserved for them. They could close their doors to have private conversations, catch up on their Fantasy Football or check out some online T&A before office hours.

I was particularly annoyed with the lack of personal privacy in my cubicle. I made it home while it needed to be but I absolutely hated when people would come into it while I was on the phone. Whether I was talking with clients or the call was personal, it was bad form to come in and listen to my conversations. One salesman would come in, sit down on my desk and wait for my call to end. Not more than a foot away from my torso, he would listen to everything I would say. Not too surprising for him as this was the same guy who would spend his mornings at the fax machine reading all the faxes and then would deliver them to our desks. It was common practice for me to cover the phone and remind him that I was on the phone; that I would be more than happy to come see him when I was done. I would turn my back and ignore him. Nothing worked.

Nothing worked until I got my rear view mirror. I positioned it on the base of my computer screen. I could see whoever came into my cubicle and then at that time decided if the conversation needed to be ended or could continue. It wasn't long before more women in the office started seeking out rear view mirrors.

Worse than the desk sitter was the cubicle stomper. He would come into my cubicle, see that I was on the phone and then stomp his feet until he got my attention. Stomp. His. Feet. He would stomp them like a three year old child that had been told he couldn't have any cookies before dinner.

The note passer. This is the guy that feels his issues take prevalence over any issue that his female colleague has. This particular male colleague would come into my cubicle and throw notes in front of my face. Notes that read "Urgent. Get off the phone." Fearing the worst, I would get off the phone and immediately inquire about his emergency. His client needed a question answered. His client was calling too much. I told him that unless one of my children was injured and the school was trying to reach me, no one interrupted my calls.

Sometimes I look back at those intrusions into my work world and laugh. But most times I look back on them and realize how the corporate structure promotes the intrusion yet does nothing about the subsequent bad behaviour.

February 08, 2007

I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.

~Robert Munsch

Of cocoons, wings, Mothers and Daughters.

I have watched both of my daughters go through metamorphosis. It isn't just for butterflies. I have watched them squirm around in their cocoons. Cocoons constructed of their homes, friends, family, parents and schools. Boxes in their own right, these cocoons stretch to their limit and burst open. Despite being cracked and weathered, a beautiful butterfly emerges from the cocoon. Her wings are wet so she flutters them gently in the sunlight until they gain the strength they need to take her great distances to big adventures.

Metamorphosis is a beautiful wonder. But it can also be just like a roller coaster ride. It can take a parent up sheer cliffs of cold dark fear and then propel them down hills at exhilarating euphoric speeds. All the while your heart sets in your throat beating like a steel drum. No parent knows if they will survive this ride.

Leaving the nest. Learning to let go. These phrases characterize the last six years of my life. My daughters are growing up. They are making decisions on their own; they are experiencing their lives. But growth hurts. Especially when a parent has lived, to a certain extent, vicariously through their children. The laundry basket is empty, the clothing missing from the bathroom floor, and dinners go uncooked. Gone are the cross country meets, the softball games, the parent teacher conferences and the unmade beds. Do they still need us? Or will the calls home be reserved for those life crises that will arise; broken hearts, stalled cars and sick bodies?

The pain a parent feels when their child leaves home is real. They fear for their child's future and they fear the unknown. Combine these fears with the absence of noise in the house and quiet evenings and you get a recipe for instant loneliness. At least for me, I know that one of the symptoms for my empty nest syndrome is dealing with the extra time I have. It is time for me to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

Last summer we went to New York City. I had never been to the top of the Empire State Building. I don't like elevators so I wondered how I would react going so many stories up into space. I did fine. I loved being up there! Standing on top of the world, looking out towards Central Park and the skyline into New York state, I was reminded that there is a big ole world out there. Opportunity and possibilities are endless. My Mom used to tell me it was "all between my ears". She was right.

Is the sky really the limit? Will I find my niche now that the butterflies have flown the cocoon? I guess I'll be finding out.

February 07, 2007

Everyone farts. We all know that. But why do men think it is okay to fart in their cubicles? I will never understand why most men think that farting at the office, let alone the cubicle situated right next to yours, will go unnoticed. Maybe the problem is that some men behave at work just like they would at home (huge discussion for another day and another diary). I did some searching for a scientific study that would shed some light on this crazy phenomenon but I wasn't successful. What I do know is that most men do it; most women don't. Perhaps the gas in a cubicle zone has become so pervasive that it now qualifies as a "hazard to your health" from flatulent exposure.

I went to work for one company that was in the middle of an office re-location. The temporary offices were situated in a large strip center, complete with a center section of cubicles. I was assigned a seat in a cubicle right next to the temporary co-ed bathroom. Talk about gas! I was exposed to gas from colleagues going in, colleagues coming out, and, the scent of nose-hair-burning gases after the bathroom was used. The only word that comes to mind to adequately describe this scenario is nauseating. I lasted there one week. Not just in the cubicle but in the job. I resigned; I couldn't take it anymore.

Years later I encountered some bad boys in a new cubicle farm. You could always tell when they had been out drinking the night before; the air was filled with their escapades. Hmmm...is that Jack Daniels I smell? Hard liquor and the inner workings of the male digestive system is not a recipe that produces anything palatable. So toxic were those fumes that they could have been bottled and used as some type of repellant! The women who sat near the gas guys would burn candles at their desks to get through the day. I lived in fear that if I happened to walk by them right after they had just let-one-fly that the smell would cling to my hair or my clothes. Complaints were made to management; their pleas were largely ignored. What to do.

February 05, 2007

I love the movie Office Space. It is one of my favorites; one of those movies that can be watched over and over without distressed movie syndrome setting in. I guess when a movie speaks to your life you can see the same scenes and hear the same punch lines many times without getting tired of them. They keep hammering the same message to the viewer time and again. My favorite scenes in Office Space come from the main character's disdain for the cubicle he works in. Four walls that look just alike that compact a work space, including the life of the occupant.

I spent twenty two years of my professional life in a cubicle. The insurance industry is built on cubicles; they have so many of them that they are sometimes called cubicle farms. My first cubicle was actually a pseudo cubicle. It was constructed of my hard, cold metal desk, a bookcase in front of me, a bookcase to the left of me and another cold, hard metal desk behind me. The woman who sat behind me was great. We became friends. The guy who sat to my left was loud. The guy who sat in front of me was a smoker so my lungs were harassed on a daily basis by him. There was no such thing as privacy; only cold hard metal desks and bookcases for 8-10 hours a day. I knew more about my coworkers than I ever wanted to know. And I am sure they knew more about me than I wanted them to.

The psychology behind the cubicle fascinates me (I never liked being in a cubicle but I respect the fact that many employees make cubicles their homes for 40 hours a week. If you are cool with your cubicle, good for you). I always felt like a rat in a maze that was being watched for some bigger than life scientific study. Just tall enough to be able to see just over the cubicle walls, I could see where my colleagues were, when the boss was coming for the 3:50 p.m. cubicle check and when others were leaving early. I had a supervisor who would walk around every day at 3:50 to check the cubicles. My guess is that he wanted to see who was at their desk and who wasn't. Or maybe this daily ritual made him feel like the manager that he wasn't. What he didn't know was that we were onto him. Bosses, don't do cubicle checks when you are taller than the cubicle walls. We can see you coming. Being shorter than you we can hustle back to our cubicles before you get to them.

February 02, 2007

My first dress up interview was with a major delivery service. I was 20 years old, in college and desperately needed a good paying job. I wasn't a trust fund kid; my parents did not support me financially when I went to school. Tuition was creatively scraped together each semester. I was also tired of working in retail. I thought I would try something new. I could load and sort boxes as good as any of my male friends who were working in the delivery industry. I knew I could get used to making better than minimum wage; why not try?

I called the manager at the local facility and made an appointment to sell my skills in person. He agreed to see me. I was excited; I could see a light at the end of my financial tunnel. On the day of the interview I got dressed up, put my limited resume together and headed over to meet the manager.

What an interview. Talk about life changing on a dime and perceptions being knocked off kilter. He began the interview by asking me why I thought I was qualified to sort boxes and read zip codes. How hard could that be? I made my case to the manager but was floored by his next question. "Do you cry easily?" he asked me. What?Do I cry easily? What does he mean by that? I couldn't believe my ears. I asked him why my emotional state was relevant to the job I was applying for. I will always remember his response..."because you will be working with men and they might try to make you cry."

I didn't get the job. My emotions ran from furious to pissed and then back to furious. Years later I realized that even though I did not get the job I had received something much more valuable. My eyes were opened.